Memories of Tom Gola: Hero, neighbor, basketball star

FOR A 10-year-old, basketball-crazy boy, this was going to be a dream come true! The rumor mill in the neighborhood was "reporting" that Tom Gola just moved into our subdivision.

It was August 1959. About a month earlier, I had moved with my family from Oxford Circle to the Far Northeast, in a newly discovered section of the city called Somerton. The name of the brand-new, Korman-built development was Brentwood Park.

It was an exciting time for me - I was looking forward to starting fifth grade in the fall at a new school (Watson Comly Elementary, which was an actually an old school, even back then). As I was meeting the new kids in the neighborhood, who were all moving in at around the same time, the main thing on my mind was finding a bunch of guys I could play baseball with on the ample sandlots of Somerton. Maybe we could, I wished, even field a Little League baseball team to challenge the (eventual) Little League World Series winners from Levittown! But baseball was merely my summertime fixation; it was still a few months before my real passion kicked in - basketball season.

A few years earlier, my father introduced me to the NBA, at about the same time I became hooked on playing the game myself on the concrete courts, where 7-foot baskets towered over me at Carnell Elementary. The courts had weeds between the cracks, but that didn't matter to me - I played all day long during summers and immediately after school during school days.

In those days, only a few of the Philadelphia Warriors games were televised, but my dad helped lobby my mom to allow me to stay up and watch the games whenever possible. That's when I fell in basketball-love with Tom Gola, a tremendous guard who played for the Warriors. Back in those days, the two shortest guys on a team whose main responsibility was to dribble the ball up the court and shoot when they got an open shot were just called guards, not necessarily "point guards" or "shooting guards," as today. Since I was only of average size, I aspired to play guard myself and therefore had a natural affinity for those who played that position.

Tom represented everything that was perfect to me. He was good-looking, strong, really tall for a guard and - most of all - he could shoot a basketball like hell. Although my dad liked Gola as much as most of the other Warriors, he didn't quite share the passion I had for him. (Later I realized it was because my dad was a Temple graduate/Harry Litwack guy, and since Tom played for La Salle, well, you know . . . .) But none of that mattered to me. I loved Tom the most of all the Warriors. My dad took me to many Warriors games at the Arena (46th and Market) and Convention Hall (34th Street, near Penn's campus) and I fixated on Tom's greatness. I just about swooned every time announcer Dave Zinkoff got to say "GOLA GOOOAAALLL!!!"

And, trust me, that was a call that Zinkoff announced with great frequency.

So, in August 1959, when my new friends Mark Creager, Johnny Conlogue and I were playing stickball in the newly paved street one day, Johnny happened to nonchalantly mention he heard that Gola just moved in to a new house a few doors down from him. Right here in Brentwood Park! When Johnny made this pronouncement, I nearly dropped my stickball bat. I gaped, but couldn't speak.

Johnny knew the address, so we stopped the stickball game and gingerly dared to walk to within 100 yards of the house. And there it was. Tom Gola's house.

"Guys," I said, "we've got to find a way to meet him."

My first thought was that we could offer to cut his lawn, so we were plotting to walk over with push mowers in hand (only Johnny's father owned a rotary power mover, which he would not let his kid use, or anyone else, for that matter). But a few days later Johnny saw Gola cutting his own lawn with a power mower - putting the kibosh on that bright idea.

Since going to his door and actually knocking on it "just to say hello" was definitely out of the question for three timid 10-year-olds, we mutually agreed that we would wait for the first snowfall and then offer to do the walkway. To wait until winter to meet him seemed interminable, but we had the new school to attend to, more new friends to meet, and the Somerton Youth Organization basketball league was having tryouts soon, so in retrospect I suppose the wait wasn't so much a hardship.

In November 1959, it was the start of Wilt Chamberlain's rookie season. Gola and Paul Arizin were both playing great for the Warriors and the team was off to a good start. Then, during the week of Nov. 21, we were blessed with an early-season snowstorm! It wasn't a big snow at all - probably about 2 to 3 inches at most - but it was enough to send us home early from school. Johnny, Mark and I ran off the school bus as fast as we could to hurry home, change into our junk corduroys, get mittens and hat, and meet at Johnny's with our snow shovels. We marched, well, we walked somewhat timidly to Gola's house and when we got to the door we "chose," with a thrust of either one or two fingers, who would knock on the door. Mark, the "chosen" one, rapped twice. Within about 5 seconds, the door opens - and standing there was a woman who we figured was his wife. She welcomed us with a broad smile.

"Can I help you boys?"

I don't remember exactly who, but one of us said: "Mrs. Gola? We'd like to shovel Mr. Gola's walkway and sidewalk. We would like to do it for free." Tom's wife said: "Sure, Tom and I would love to have a clear sidewalk, but you will not do it for free. I will pay you 2 dollars each." Mind you, 6 dollars was a lot of money back in 1959 to shovel 2 inches of snow from a 30 x 2-foot long walkway and sidewalk, but we figured we would just turn down the money and ask for Tom's autograph instead. The three of us completed the job in about 10 minutes and returned to knock on the door. Mrs. Gola looked out the glass door to survey the excellent job we had done, and it was obvious she liked what she saw. We reiterated our desire to receive no payment for the job.

"Could we have Mr. Gola's autograph instead?" This time her smile was even brighter than before - she opened the door.

"Come in, boys, and have a seat on the sofa. I'll go get Tom."

You can't imagine my excitement at this point. Tom, all 6 feet, 6 inches of him, strode into the family room, extending his hand to each of us.

"Boys, Caroline tells me you did a fantastic job shoveling the walk," he said. "I'll be glad to give each of you an autograph, and five bucks apiece for doing such a nice job."

Imagine three 10-year-old boys being totally speechless. And imagine me. Tom Gola was my idol, for gosh sakes. Since he saw no words were forthcoming from our mouths, he just continued.

"Sit down, boys, and my wife will bring you some hot chocolate and cookies to warm you up a bit. We can talk."

Talk? Easy for him to say, I thought.

"So, do you boys like the Warriors?" Tom said. I nodded that I did. And then I actually asked him if Wilt Chamberlain was really 7-2. Since I was by far the biggest basketball fan among our threesome, I had privy to that factoid and eagerly offered it up.

"You bet he is that tall," Tom said. "Biggest in the NBA, and we're sure glad we have him on the Warriors."

Hot chocolate arrived and cookies were consumed, and after 20 minutes, Tom asked: "Do you boys have plans for this Sunday afternoon?" We looked at one another. What plans could 10-year-old boys have on a Sunday afternoon? Of course, we had none.

"How would you like to come with me to the game? We are playing the Knickerbockers at 2 p.m. Can the three of you be here at my house at 10 in the morning?" We all said, "Oh, yes. thank you!" Then we each ran home, told our parents and got permission to accompany Gola to the Warriors game on Sunday. As for me, when I woke up the following morning, I called Mark and Johnny just to confirm that this whole thing wasn't a dream.

On Sunday morning, Nov. 29, we met again at Johnny's house and, this time, strode a bit more confidently over to Tom's. We watched him kiss his wife goodbye and asked us to get into his street-parked car, a brand-new Pontiac Bonneville. Now, keep in mind that in 1959 a Pontiac Bonneville was as upscale a car as you could find (sure, some really rich people had Cadillac Eldorados and such), but in those days, NBA players did not earn nearly the kind of riches they earn today in the post-Michael Jordan era. None of our parents could afford a Pontiac Bonneville, especially one with such amenities as power windows. Ah, power windows! We did not even know how they worked since, after all, there was no crank, and who knew where the switches were even located? All three of us scrambled into the enormous back seat and began the drive to Convention Hall, where we were going to watch a Warriors game, and watch Tom Gola, our chauffeur for the day, hopefully score at least 25 points!

The drive from Somerton to old Convention Hall in West Philly was about 1 hour in those days. Of course, at that time, there was no I-95, so the best route was to use the Roosevelt Boulevard. Remnants of the 2.5-inch snowstorm earlier in the week had long since disappeared and Sunday was bright, sunny, and somewhat mild. Tom had the windows - again, the power windows - all closed, as he was regaling us with basketball stories about different players in the NBA, intertwined with asking us about how we are doing in our subjects in fifth grade.

During this time, I happened to catch a glance of my friend Mark Creager, who was sitting next to me on the right rear-window side. Mark just didn't look right and he was not partaking a whole lot in the conversation with Tom. Suddenly, with one mighty heave, Mark regurgitated probably every meal he had eaten since we first sat down in Tom's family room several days earlier; including, most likely, the cookies Mrs. Gola served us. This happened about 25 minutes into our drive. Within seconds, an unimaginable odor overtook the interior of the Bonneville, and Tom quickly opened his window, while imploring us to do the same in the back. Ah, but how in the world does one open these power windows? None of us had the faintest clue. And, sadly, that is precisely the question poor Mark Creager was trying himself to figure out about 15 minutes earlier when he was just starting to feel queasy!

At the time, this disaster occurred, we were passing the old Sears and Roebuck building on the Boulevard and were soon approaching Rising Sun Avenue. Besides being Tom Terrific, the great basketball player, he showed to us the quick-thinking skills that undoubtedly helped to make him the great basketball player, and ultimately the basketball coach, businessman and public servant he became years later. In these days, long before cellphones or car phones, Tom made a right turn somewhere near Duncannon Avenue and drove us and his Bonneville directly to his mother's house in Olney for a surprise visit. Once there, he said in a calm but firm voice that we would be welcome to meet his mom while he "took care of the car." He brought us in, quickly made introductions to his somewhat shocked mother, grabbed a roll of paper towels, scrubbing brush, and a bucket of water, and disappeared back outside and down the steps of the row home to his car.

The friendly, senior Mrs. Gola then served us - you guessed it - milk and cookies. After about 20 minutes, Tom reappeared at his mother's house, and this time bore three rolls of Tums he just bought for us next door at the drugstore. He handed one roll to each of us, and ushered us back into the now-clean (but not completely odor-free) new Bonneville and, faster than a 24-second clock goes to zero, we were back on our way to Convention Hall.

Tom parked behind the Hall in the players' section and took us inside. We had midcourt seats about three rows up from the floor. We heard Zinkoff yell his famed "GOLA GOOAAAL" numerous times, but unfortunately the Warriors lost the game narrowly to the Knicks, 127-126. Tom did not have his greatest game, as he scored only 16 points, and I've wondered for years whether our emesis-induced detour had anything to do with that somewhat subpar (for Tom) performance.

The other guard on the team, Guy Rodgers, a Temple guy, scored 26, which undoubtedly made my dad, who was watching on TV back at home, very happy. More notably, that game offered a preview of the skills of one of the up-and-coming greatest stars to ever play in the NBA, Wilt Chamberlain, and a glimpse of the process of incorporating his incredible game into the Warriors' offensive flow. The Warriors, led by Gola, went on to have a very good season, but lost the Eastern Division to the Boston Celtics in a series that premiered the great Sixers-Celtics, Bill Russell-Wilt Chamberlain battles that both Philadelphia and Boston basketball fans remember so fondly today.

Once the game was over, as we were instructed before the game, we remained in our seats until Tom appeared in his street clothes, carrying three autographed Warriors game programs in his hand. Those were the days when an autograph meant something much more than a commodity to be sold on eBay. A program cost 30 cents, but it gave you what you needed in terms of rosters, records, plus a few interesting columns, not to mention that all-important lucky number. Signatures from all the Warriors' players, as well as the coach, Neil Johnston, were on the cover. I still have that program, and it has a special place on my shelf.

When we piled into the Bonneville for the drive home, we could see some other members of the team leaving in their cars, as well. I recognized Ernie Beck and Woodie Sauldsberry. Then Tom pointed his finger to the left and he said, "There goes Wilt." He was wearing what looked like a straw hat as he walked to his car.

The ride home was uneventful (Thank God!). Tom made sure we could skillfully operate the power windows. We talked again about basketball - and life in the fifth grade - all the way back to Somerton. Although every once in a while we saw Tom around his house, I can't recall that we ever shoveled his walkway again. Not long afterward, we heard that the Golas moved out of Brentwood Park to a house close to Huntingdon Valley. Tom also moved on in his professional life. First, ironically, to the rival New York Knicks in 1962, then upward and onward to be a state representative, then city controller of Philadelphia and coach of the greatest basketball team La Salle ever had, in 1969. For me, I was heartbroken when the Warriors moved to San Francisco after the 1962 season, and it took me a long time to adopt the 76ers as the new "home" team (they were formerly the hated Syracuse Nationals franchise, for goodness sake!). As far as our power-window-challenged threesome was concerned, Mark Creager became a noted cardiologist in the Boston area, which is a good thing, because he can now most likely choose a fine anti-nausea medication for himself. And Johnny Conlogue, well, I totally lost track of him after junior high school.

And so it went. The nice thing about dreams that come true when you are 10 years old is that you have the joy of remembering them for a long, long time.